Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Madelaine didn’t know how she made her way back to her aunt’s side. It was all a blur.
Her bravado disappeared the moment she walked out of that dark room.
And it had been nothing but bravado back there, the courage to speak, to remain another moment in his presence.
All she had wanted was to give way and sink to the hard floor and cry like she’d hardly cried in nine years. But she couldn’t yet.
Her pale face was helpful though. As was the trembling in her voice, in her every limb, as she convinced her worried aunt she was ill. “A terrible headache, so sudden, but I’m sure it’s nothing rest won’t cure.”
“Oh, my dear, my dear…” Her poor aunt bundled her out of the ballroom, away from the glittering heart of her success.
Madelaine stumbled out through the doors. The cold air hit her, making her shudder, and then she bent double, stomach cramping. Her body had decided Lord Cotereigh was poison. She didn’t disagree.
“The carriage, the carriage…oh, wherever is it…?” Her aunt held her arm, both of them shivering now in their thin cloaks after the heat inside.
God, yes, it could take an hour or more for the carriage to be found and the horses made ready.
Madelaine closed her eyes against her despair. Waiting here on the steps suddenly felt like the straw that would break her. What if he came after her? He might. What if she heard his voice behind her…
“Mrs Ardingly. Lady Pemberthy.”
She tensed, almost ill again, but it wasn’t him. It was another man. Their host, the Duke of Cumbria.
“Your Grace,” her aunt answered, speaking for her. “Yes, she’s suddenly unwell… Really? You’re so kind, so very generous…”
He was offering them his own carriage. It was being brought round as they spoke. Yes, he quite agreed, it was a horrendous business getting one’s carriage untangled from the hundred waiting in the streets. No, no need to thank him; thank his wife, it was her suggestion.
A rattle of wheels, and it was there. The duke handed her in himself, then her aunt.
Undoubtedly he said something very polite, made a wonderful bow, but Madelaine didn’t see it, murmuring disjointed thanks he could probably hardly hear.
It was dark inside, and she sank weakly into a corner, curled up, fighting nausea again as the carriage lurched into rocking motion.
“You poor thing,” her aunt fussed, stroking her hair, patting her hand. “My mother, your grandmother, used to get headaches like this. Terrible, terrible things. I do hope you’re not becoming prey to them.”
She mumbled something then closed her eyes tight, breathing deep. She had to get hold of herself. It was bad enough to cut her aunt’s evening short without worrying the woman further.
“I’m sure it’s nothing. One of these fleeting, horrible things. Talk to me. Take my mind off it.” Eyes shut because it was easier to be strong like that, she squeezed her aunt’s hand, holding it on her lap. “Tell me what I missed of your evening.”
“If you’re sure you don’t need quiet, dear…”
Her aunt chattered away, describing all the people she’d met, all the compliments the ball had received. They were almost overrun with new donors, it seemed, now their cause was a fashionable one.
“And just think, if Lord Cotereigh hadn’t come to visit us that day…”
Madelaine winced, but her aunt continued, no idea of the pain she dealt.
“I heard some interesting news of him tonight. I must apologise if I got your hopes up on the carriage ride over. It was wishful thinking on my part. It seems he has been engaged to Lady Frances for some time. Or almost engaged. They’ve been forever on the verge of announcing it, it seems. Most people seemed to suspect tonight might be the night. ”
Madelaine was almost ill again. Her stomach flipped over, as though this was some great surprise. But why should she be shocked? It all made so much sense. Of course, of course it was Lady Frances, that great friend of his, allied with his wager, so very beautiful and fashionable and popular.
A marquess’s daughter.
Of course. Of course.
Oh God, she was going to be sick, here in the Duke of Cumbria’s carriage. She clapped a hand to her mouth and breathed desperately through her nose.
“Madelaine?”
“It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
“I should call for the doctor. You seem very bad. And here I am prattling away. Oh dear, oh dear…” Her aunt fussed, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders, rummaging under the seats and triumphantly discovering a blanket in the box there.
Madelaine could have cried when she tucked it tenderly around her knees.
The best woman. The best aunt. Lord Pemberthy’s wife was an angel, and yet society turned its nose up, Lord Cotereigh curled his lip…
“You surely realise the type of wife I require.”
How had she ever thought she could love him? How had she ever thought he could take Alfred’s place in her heart?
When they finally got home, her aunt very anxiously put her to bed, fetching her a hot brick, lemonade, broth, drops. The moment she regretfully left, Madelaine got out of bed.
She pulled off her nightslip, wetted her washcloth, and scrubbed every place that Lord Cotereigh had touched. She rubbed her mouth until her lips were sore; she wiped her arms, her breasts, her waist. She cleaned the memory of him from between her thighs.
What a fool, mistaking base, carnal lust for something precious. He kissed like sin because he was sin.
He was the very devil.
She crawled back into bed, damp and shivering and feeling no cleaner than before.
The next day was busy. It was good to be busy.
The committee would have its first meeting in the afternoon.
Madelaine would ensure she was out of the house, just in case he had decided to be infuriating and hadn’t yet resigned his position.
But in the meantime, there were papers to prepare.
And there were also a great many things to pack up and send out.
Her aunt wasn’t there to help her with that, which was just as well because then Madelaine would have had to make explanations she didn’t currently know how to make.
She had arrived downstairs that morning, still pale but apparently otherwise well, and persuaded her aunt to go and visit Tom.
His daily reading lesson had been arranged for this morning, the committee meeting occupying the afternoon.
Yes, yes, she’d reassured her aunt, she was quite well but perhaps a little too tired to make the journey to Lord Cotereigh’s house that morning.
She might rest instead and work on all this paperwork.
Her aunt, thank goodness, had agreed that seemed sensible. And had then left for his house.
How on earth was she to extricate her life entirely from his? That she never wished to see him again—that she could not bear it—she was wholly certain. But the last month had cast lines between them, two boats lashed together, no matter how ill-matched.
There was the committee, there was Tom, there was even his father, Lord Arnon, whom her aunt, in her usual way, had decided to make a cause of.
The two of them played cards, often with Tom but sometimes without, and bickered amiably about politics, disagreeing on absolutely everything and seeming to find it amusing.
Her aunt’s life had been considerably brightened by the association with Lord Cotereigh and his household.
She doted on Tom, swelled with quiet pride every time she talked of the committee, and, though she didn’t quite admit it, was very pleased to now be recognised by many of the people and old friends who had once seen fit to abandon her.
Madelaine might dislike such superficial and mercurial affection, but that her aunt was happier than she’d been since her husband died, she could not deny.
So she would keep secret the son’s wrongdoing. She would keep secret her own sore heart. The answer was obvious: it was time to return to Sussex.
She normally did anyway, a month or so from now.
It wasn’t such an early departure from town.
Her brothers and her mother wrote often, not directly begging her to return, but making it very clear such a thing would be welcome.
She could easily persuade her aunt that the demands of her youngest brothers and nieces and nephews were urgent.
After all, they’d already more than accomplished the goals they’d set themselves for this year.
Thanks to Lord Cotereigh.
She set her jaw, willing her hand not to shake on the note she was writing. It would be cool, calm, and dispassionate. He, of all people, would appreciate that! Almost she paused to nibble the end of her pen, but ink spots came to mind and she pressed her lips together once more.
It was only a short note. There wasn’t much to say. She added it to the last bundle she’d tied up in string and paper and called for Godfrey.
“Please arrange a porter to take these bundles to Lord Cotereigh’s house. This note is for him. They must not arrive before two.”
Her aunt would have left by then.
Indeed, her aunt returned not long after the porter had collected the items, humming to herself as she entered the sitting room.
“Was Tom well?” Madelaine asked. “And Lord Arnon?”
“Yes!” Her aunt sat down with a bounce that forced an oof of air from the sofa cushions. She grinned. “He’s a little rogue!”
Madelaine passed her aunt some tea, amazed to find she could smile so normally. “Tom? Or Lord Arnon?”
Her aunt laughed. “Oh, both!”
“And…” Why on earth was she asking? “And was Lord Cotereigh at home?”
“No. I didn’t see him.” She sipped her tea, brow creased in thought. “I think perhaps his father said he went riding? I’m not sure, but I do know he’ll be in a towering rage when he gets back.”
Her hand shook on her cup. She put it down in the saucer. “Oh?”
“The whole room was strewn with cogs and gears! They’d taken a clock to pieces, both of them on their hands and knees amongst its innards. You would have laughed to see the earl. He reminded me of a little boy playing dice in the street.”